


Dust of Gold

by Lpsta



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:31:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lpsta/pseuds/Lpsta
Summary: When his father was killed in the war, Prince Arthur was forced into slavery. Taking revenge on the man who had killed his father was all that kept him going. Only, it suddenly wasn't that simple.





	Dust of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I've been so hit and miss with posting anything: I've scrapped so many ideas. I'm finally working on something longer, and then this one came out of nowhere.
> 
> This is supposed to just be a one-shot, but now this arc is in my head so who knows!

“It’s time.”

Arthur looked up. He was curled up on his thin blanket in the corner of the kitchen, making the most of the warmth from the ovens.

Edwin was standing over him, a predatory sneer on his face. Arthur stood slowly, making sure he didn’t make eye contact but refusing to lower his chin. Two years of slavery had caused most of his defiance to vanish; he hadn’t a choice if he wanted to survive. But there were some people – Edwin being one – that he refused to submit to. His pride got him into trouble, but it was all he had left.

Edwin grabbed his arm, his fingers digging into flesh tight enough to bruise. He jerked Arthur forward, marching him from the kitchen at a fast pace. Arthur stumbled, tripping over his feet as he tried to match the speed and heard Edwin chuckle quietly under his breath. He flushed, knowing he had given the man the reaction he wanted.

Edwin pulled him through a castle that was now as familiar to Arthur as his own used to be. He had been fifteen when he had been brought here; beaten, chained and screaming defiance at the captors who had killed his father, taken his kingdom and forced an exiled prince into slavery.

He swallowed hard as Edwin pulled him deeper into the castle. He cleaned these rooms – he cleaned everywhere but the armoury – but they were the personal chambers of those King Cendred honoured. He knew _exactly_ what Edwin meant by his words and it was enough for Arthur’s knees to tremble.

He forced thoughts of what was to come aside. He had to partition his mind, focus on one thing at a time, or he would never survive the evening. It didn’t help though; his breathing was picking up, panic threatening to overwhelm him.

He took a deep breath, held it and slowly exhaled. Edwin was pulling him along; he didn’t need to think about where he needed to go. As long as he kept putting one foot in front of the other, the man wouldn’t notice.

Instead, he took this time to control himself. This was what he had wanted: this was how he took his revenge. He made sure to catch the Court Warlock’s eye within a few months of being here - once they decided he had calmed down enough to be let out of the dungeons and put to work. He didn’t know what had drawn the man’s attention: his looks or his defiance when the Court Warlock had found him mouthing off to a group of guards and subsequently had to rescue him from their beating before their king’s new prize was killed.

There had been a smirk on his face, a glint in his eye, as if he knew exactly why Arthur had goaded the men. He had petitioned the king to take ownership of Arthur, but the king had refused, claiming the prince belonged to the crown. They had compromised: Merlin was allowed to use him once Arthur reached his seventeenth birthday, but the slave still belonged to the king.

He had barely seen the Court Warlock since, but was always aware of eyes on him, watching, judging.

Until now.

The day he turned seventeen.

Panic reared again and Arthur’s palms sweated. He forced himself to think of the plan: Merlin was the one who had killed his father. Now, Arthur was being allowed into his chambers, unguarded, being allowed to witness the man at his most vulnerable. This was his chance for revenge.

He suddenly stumbled and realised Edwin’s pace had slowed. The sorcerer shot him a filthy look before motioning for Arthur to go in front of him, shoving him hard between the shoulder blades when he hesitated.

He entered a small room – a servant’s room. There was already a steaming bath waiting for him and Arthur’s gaze locked on the steam curling from it. Cold washes from a bucket was all he had been allowed for the last two years and his lips parted in a soft gasp at the sight. This was what he had been used to; what had been stolen from him.

“Strip,” Edwin barked. Arthur flinched. He folded his arms and shook his head.

“Leave first.”

Edwin’s backhand didn’t surprise him, but it still hurt. Arthur stumbled and felt the man’s magic pinning him in place. He gritted his teeth, struggling, but he had never been able to fight against power of this magnitude. Edwin’s hands were rough as he grabbed the bottom of the thigh-length tunic that had been Arthur’s entire wardrobe for the past two years and ripped it over his head.

Unable to move, Arthur locked his jaw, breathing heavily through his nose. Edwin stepped back, his gaze very deliberately running over his exposed body. He hissed a word and Arthur’s arms jerked.

The thick leather cuffs hid the marks when they had first kept him in chains. But each cuff had a small link attached, and Edwin formed a chain between the two of them, tying his hands.

“In,” he ordered, releasing the magic. Arthur didn’t see the point of arguing: he crossed the room and stepped into the bath. Turning his head away, he refused to let Edwin see the tear slip down his face at how good the warm water felt. It had been too long, far too long, since he had felt warm water cover him, the warmth seeping into him, soothing his soul.

Something rough dragged over his back and Arthur hissed at Edwin’s touch. The man was holding a small cloth, rubbing it over Arthur’s back, his movements harsh. The prince gritted his teeth, not giving Edwin the satisfaction.

He remained rigid, unmoving, as the man continued. Edwin washed his chest, his arms, but then his hand dipped under the water. The cloth floated to the surface when he let go.

“No,” Arthur whimpered as a scarred palm wrapped around him. He pushed at Edwin’s shoulder, but the man put his free arm across Arthur’s chest, holding him back, as he continued to roughly tug at his cock.

Arthur drew his legs up, water sloshing over the side of the tub.

“Stop it.” He tried twisting away. “Please, stop it!”

“You love it,” Edwin breathed. He let go of Arthur’s chest, palming himself through his breeches. His grip tightened.

“Get off!”

Arthur didn’t care he was shouting. He had spent two years bracing himself for this day, knowing his enemy was going to take his virginity. He had heard stories about Merlin: he was a good man, kind to his slaves, even made it pleasurable for them.

He had prepared himself for that. Not this.

He tried moving away until Edwin grabbed his neck. Arthur cried out.

“Edwin!”

The voice was powerful, authoritative, and ablaze with magic. Arthur felt it wash over him. But unlike Edwin’s magic, it was a soothing, calming touch. He didn’t notice the chain binding his wrists vanish. But Edwin let go with a curse, pulling back as if Arthur had burnt him.

“Touch him again and you will answer to the king,” the voice continued. Arthur stayed curled up, huddled against the side of the tub. Edwin muttered something unintelligible but he moved away. Arthur breathed a little easier when he heard the man leave.

“Are you alright?” The voice continued. Arthur recoiled, drawing in on himself at the idea of another man seeing him like this. It was going to be bad enough when he had to face the Court Warlock – he couldn’t handle someone else witnessing his vulnerability.

“It’s alright,” the voice soothed, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to come any closer.”

Arthur dared to look over his shoulder. The man was standing in the doorway, but was blocking the light from the corridor – Arthur couldn’t see who it was. He saw the man turn, watched his profile as he beckoned someone down the corridor. Nothing about him seemed dangerous or threatening and Arthur managed to catch his breath.

“Gwen, love,” the man said softly, “I think he needs your help.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

Arthur saw her bob a curtsey before the man disappeared. The woman entered. She was a maid, but she had a kind face and she smiled at Arthur as she approached slowly, kneeling down beside the bath.

“I’m going to help you,” she said, “is that alright?”

Arthur looked at her through tear-filled eyes but nodded. She smiled at him again, one full of warmth and compassion. Her hands were gentle as she quickly and effectively washed him and he didn’t even feel embarrassed. She helped him out, wrapping him in a towel and guiding him closer to a fire that she quickly lit.

“I’ll be right back,” she said softly, waiting for him to nod before disappearing. She wasn’t long but came back with numerous pots in her hand.

Arthur stared. She dried him off and started smearing his skin with oils that made him glow in the firelight. She smudged something under his eyes, then dusted his skin with a golden power. She hummed quietly as she worked, not realising it was calming him, as she prepared him for his night with the Court Warlock.

Then, suddenly, she was finished. She stood off and brushed off her hands. She smiled at him.

“You look beautiful,” she said quietly, “he’ll treasure you. He’ll be good to you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I-,” Arthur didn’t know what to say. Her fingertips brushed his cheek lightly but she was careful not to smudge the powders. She left and Arthur stood up. There was a small looking glass balanced on the mantle piece and he glanced in.

He didn’t recognise himself.

It wasn’t the slave from the past two years staring back at him.

But it also wasn’t the prince he had been before.

He didn’t know who he was.

Tonight was the night he took his revenge though.

He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now. But he didn’t have long to wait. The door suddenly opened, although no one was standing the other side. Across the corridor, another door opened and the glow of candlelight spilled out.

It was time.

Arthur took a breath and willed his knees to stop shaking. He crossed the corridor, sinking to his knees as he had been trained. The rug was soft under his knees and Arthur kept his gaze on the richly woven threads rather than look up. He wanted this; wanted to be here so he could avenge his father. But that didn’t mean he wanted to look Merlin in the eye.

“Are you alright?”

The voice was soft, familiar, and Arthur forgot himself as he looked up.

Merlin was sitting at a writing table, a quill in his hand and ink staining his wrists. In the flickering candlelight, he looked tired and worn, but he was looking at Arthur as if truly cared about the answer.

“It was you,” Arthur muttered, aware he shouldn’t be speak but unable to stop himself. “You stopped Edwin.”

“He forgot his place.” There was a darkness to Merlin’s voice, a tone that reminded Arthur that this was the man who had turned the tide of the battle. Merlin stood up, walking closer until his fingers were brushing over Arthur’s cheeks, smudging the powder but not seeming to care.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathed.

Arthur caught his hand, kissing his palm.

“I’m yours, My Lord,” he murmured submissively. To his surprise, Merlin snorted.

“I doubt that. You might have learnt to control your temper, Prince Arthur, but you are no less defiant than you were two years ago.”

Arthur stared at him, fear making his heart pound. If Merlin thought he was defiant, if he told Cendred… Arthur wasn’t sure he would survive the dungeons again: the dark and cold he could handle, but the isolation had nearly undone him before.

“I was promised you,” Merlin said. He held out his hand and Arthur took it, letting the man draw him to his feet. Merlin put a hand on his waist, kissing him lightly. His touch was tender, his movements careful, and still Arthur trembled.

He pulled away and moved across the room until he reached the bed. He climbed on, lying on his back and holding out his hand.

This was the man who had killed his father. He only had to survive a few hours with the man, wait until Merlin slipped into sleep, and he could take his revenge. Already, he had noted several items that would work as effective weapons, not least the dagger strapped to Merlin’s belt.

The warlock’s eyes darkened as he looked over and he moved closer, shedding his clothes as he did so. He climbed onto the bed and Arthur tensed. Merlin lent to kiss him again and Arthur couldn’t stop himself: he flinched.

Merlin pulled back.

“You don’t want this.”

“No,” Arthur said, reaching for him, “I do. I really do.”

“Why?”

“What?” He forgot decorum, forgot that he was supposed to be a slave as he stared at Merlin. The man shrugged.

“You don’t know me. Why would you want me to bed you?”

Mind racing, Arthur glanced away. He swallowed the truth and said the first thing he thought of.

“It’s better than the kitchens. Being yours means… means Edwin can’t touch me.”

Merlin made a noise in the back of his throat. Soft fingers touched Arthur’s cheek, turning his head back. Merlin’s expression was full of empathy.

“You don’t want this,” he repeated. Arthur stared at him, willing his body to react, hoping it didn’t betray him now. But a lump formed in his throat and, to his shame, tears filled his eyes.

He didn’t want this. He hated that he was even having to pretend; spreading his legs for his enemy and hoping to get away with it. He didn’t know what he was doing, or what this would achieve, but he refused to accept slavery for any longer without doing _something_.

“You’re just a boy,” Merlin murmured softly. He stood up, grabbing a robe from the end of the bed and shrugging it on. “Just a child.”

“I am no child!” Arthur sat up, glaring at the Court Warlock. He didn’t care that he was naked in his enemy’s bed; he would not be patronised.

“No,” Merlin said, “you’ve been through too much to be a child. I’m sorry.”

He stepped away and Arthur stared after him, helpless, having no idea what he was supposed to do now. Merlin smiled, a sad smile that made him look far older.

“Go to sleep, Arthur,” he said, “you’ll be safe here.”

It was the first time someone had used his name for nearly two years. It was enough for him to try and scramble up, suddenly realising that he couldn’t breathe and he needed to get out!

“Sleep,” Merlin breathed, his eyes flashing gold. Lethargy washed over him and he crashed back on the pillows, his eyes already flickering. The magic washed over him, warm, soothing, _safe_ and Arthur somehow believed, deep in the bottom of his heart, that Merlin meant what he said: if he fell asleep here, he would be safe.

He slumped, darkness taking him, before he could think of anything else.

It was dark when he awoke. There was a weight in the bed next to him and for a moment, Arthur panicked. Then he realised that Merlin was sleeping right on the edge of the bed, almost falling off from where he was ensuring he left space between them. Arthur smiled, then caught himself and scrambled up.

Merlin didn’t stir, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. He looked exhausted.

Arthur lit a candle from the embers of the fireplace and started searching the room. Glancing at the desk, he moved the light so he could see what Merlin had been working on. Treaties, taxes, the paperwork required to rule. Arthur was surprised; he didn’t think Cendred would care about the needs of the people.

He pulled one closer, reading it. Merlin wasn’t just keeping track of who owed what: he was trying to ensure that everyone had something. Arthur glanced back at the bed and the sleeping man on it.

He turned away from the paperwork, finding Merlin’s clothes on the floor and drawing the man’s own dagger, knowing there would be some justice in using his own knife. He put the candle down, both hands on the hilt as he stood over Merlin’s sleeping form.

But he couldn’t move. Merlin was exhausted; obviously working long hours to ensure the people were surviving after the war. There hadn’t been anything personal when he had killed Uther: a quick blast of magic had been a dignified and painless death. He had ended the war; saving hundreds to lives, included Arthur’s. Cendred wouldn’t have given the King of Camelot a dignified death; it would have been a public humiliation. The people would have risen up and the bloodshed would have continued.

Merlin had ended the war, as quickly and effectively as he could. And now…now he was trying to rebuild after it, stop others suffering. Arthur knew he was taking that responsibility seriously – it was obvious in the exhausted circles under his eyes, the frown on his face even as he slept.

He dropped the knife.

Backing away from the bed, Arthur found a corner and sunk to his haunches, arms wrapped around his knees, tears flooding down his face. He had spent over a year dreaming of what this night would mean; being able to avenge his father. But here he was, with his enemy vulnerable in front of him, and all he felt was forgiveness and understanding.

Merlin was a tool: just the way Arthur had been for his father. They were fighters, warriors, just with different weapons in their arsenal. Merlin had saved _so_ many lives – Arthur couldn’t hate the man who had done the best he could for Arthur’s own people.

His slavery wasn’t Merlin’s fault either: Cendred was the one who had ordered him to be put in chains and put to work. Slavery wasn’t forbidden here: it was what Merlin knew. But no one had said a bad word about him…

Feeling more lost than when he had seen his father fall; more broken than when his hands and feet had been shackled and he had been dragged from Camelot; emptier than when he realised there was no escape, Arthur buried his head in his knees. For the first time since he had been brought here, he allowed himself to cry.

Not just for the father, the kingdom and the life he had lost. But for the loss of his anger and his hatred. Without it, he didn’t know what his future held.

He didn’t hear Merlin move until an arm suddenly wrapped around his shoulders. Merlin awkwardly sat down beside him, twisting so he could hold Arthur close.

“You’re going to be alright,” Merlin whispered, dropping a light kiss to the top of his head. It was a comforting gesture, the type Gaius used to do when Arthur had been a young boy, one full of warmth and protection. “I’ll look after you, I promise.”

“I-,” Arthur swallowed, looking up through tear-streaked eyes. “I tried to kill you.”

“I know.” Merlin didn’t sound angry; he didn’t even sound surprised. They both looked at the knife sitting on the floor. “It would have been your right. Why didn’t you?”

Arthur shrugged. He knew, and he knew Merlin knew he knew. But he wasn’t ready to put a voice to his forgiveness yet and Merlin seemed to accept that.

“Stay with me, my prince,” Merlin whispered, “and I’ll make sure no one touches you again.”

Arthur, having no idea what else to do, nodded helplessly against Merlin’s chest. Merlin held him for a moment before untangling himself.

“It’s almost dawn,” he said, “I’ve got work I need to finish. Go back to bed, Arthur. Stay in the warmth and get some more sleep.”

Arthur stood. For the first time in two years, he was going to do what he was told without fighting back. He climbed onto the bed, feeling more exhausted than he had done for a long time. His eyes shut. Someone shifted the blankets, making sure he was covered, before a hand brushed through his hair.

“Sleep,” Merlin breathed.

Arthur slept.

It was a new day, a new dawn, and it didn’t feel as dark as the ones previously.


End file.
